


For What It's Worth

by Abagail_Snow



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 3: Mockingjay, Book/Movie 2: Catching Fire, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 19:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3741178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abagail_Snow/pseuds/Abagail_Snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You were right," he says, his eyes still set on the horizon. "We have to go."</p><p>I glance up the beach to make sure the others are out of earshot. "I thought we were waiting for Beetee's plan to get rid of the careers," I say.</p><p>"And now we know it," he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stop, Hey, What's That Sound

There's nothing to do now but wait. Peeta and I sit at the edge of the water, hand in hand, wordless. He gave his speech last night but it didn't change his mind, and nothing I can say will change his.

The sun is setting, turning the cotton candy sky into burnt autumn colors of red and orange. Peeta's favorite, I think, as I squeeze his hand lightly.

"You were right," he says, his eyes still set on the horizon. "We have to go."

I glance up the beach to make sure the others are out of earshot. "I thought we were waiting for Beetee's plan to get rid of the careers," I say.

"And now we know it," he says. "The alliance is over the second Brutus' and Enobaria's cannons sound."

He's right. The others have lost their district partners, and their greatest allies. Peeta and I will be the only team left, and nobody would be foolish enough to think that aligning with us over the other members will get them out of the arena alive.

"What about Chaff?" I say.

"I don't know about you, but I don't want to find out if they think three against one is enough to take him on."

"We'll have to kill them," I say, the realization creeping from the back of my mind, where I've tried my best to banish the thoughts. I can't grow attached to them too. Like Rue or Mags or even Thresh. I can't save them. I can only save Peeta.

"Let's hope that Chaff is a good fighter," says Peeta.

It doesn't take long for me to make up my mind. We're running out of options, and the decision is obvious.

"All right," I say. "Not right away though. We don't want them to abandon the lightning plan. Otherwise we'll have too many enemies to consider."

"I agree. We'll have to break away in the jungle, where it will be easier for us to lose them."

"What about the wedges?" I say. There are still at least four sections that we know nothing about, and I have no intention of learning about them.

"Maybe we can use them to our advantage."

He checks over his shoulder. Beetee is busy weaving a mesh out of his spool of wire, and Johanna and Finnick are in the surf, seeing if they can skip oyster shells over the water's surface.

"Follow my lead, okay?" he says.

I nod only once before his hand cups my cheek and he kisses me. My body responds almost instantly, as memories from the night before awaken that warm stirring in my belly. It's a pretend kiss, one that we've rehearsed over a thousand times before, but knowing now that each kiss is closing in on our last makes me desperate to hold onto it.

When he pulls away, I nearly whimper. It's too soon, we still have time. But we don't. Night is falling soon, and as far as I know, I can count the number of hours I have left on a single hand.

Peeta stands and pulls me up with him, our hands joined loosely between us. "We're going to go get some water," he announces.

Johanna looks skeptical, and begins to trudge through the shallow water. "I'll come to," she says, stopping when Finnick catches her arm

"Let them go," he says.

The implication is as obvious as Peeta meant it to be, and since Finnick caught us kissing last night, of course he buys that we're looking for some time alone.

"Be careful out there," he adds. "Don't want to accidentally run off and get lost."

I gather the woven baskets, because even if it's only a cover, getting more water is never a bad idea, and we could certainly use it after gorging ourselves on salty shellfish.

Peeta takes a few shallow steps into the jungle, tapping on the tree trunks, in search of a good vein.

"How are you feeling?" he says.

"Sick," I admit. I ate too much at our feast, and my stomach is twisted into knots with thoughts over tonight's plan.

"I've heard that's one of the symptoms," he says. "Some husband I am, I know next to nothing about pregnancy." 

The mention of the baby catches me off guard for a second, and I touch a hand to my flat stomach to remind myself that I'm  _supposed_  to be pregnant. I force a smile on my face.

"Well luckily I do," I say, leaning against that tree he's found suitable. He plunges the spiel into the bark and waits. "My mother's a healer after all."

He holds one of the baskets beneath the spiel to catch the light trickle of water. "I'm pretty sure your mother will disown you after what we've done," he says. 

He's playing up sponsor support, which we'll need more than ever now that we've decided to abandon our alliance. But still, talking about our life as it was, as if we'll both be walking out of the arena just like the last time, leaves me looming beneath an uncertain dread. 

"I don't think that's true," I say. "My mother only pretends not to like you."

"She's awfully good at it," he says, and it's obvious that he's only joking. The Capitol seems to love the obstacle my mother poses in our star crossed love story. Apparently it's a much easier pill to swallow than the threat the Games poses on our fate. 

"So you'll get sick?" Peeta says.

"For a while," I say, recalling the bone thin women my mother used to treat, who wouldn't eat because they didn't want to waste the food. "And then I'll be hungry for everything."

He smiles. "How is that any different from how you usually are?" I elbow him in the side at his laughter.

"It's still too early to be showing symptoms," I lie. I don't even know how far along I'm supposed to be.

"They don't know that," Peeta says, topping off a basket with water and handing it off to me. I hand him an empty basket in exchange, and he begins to fill it.

"They'll think I'm faking," I say, stopping myself before I add,  _they know I'm not really pregnant._

"They can't prove it," he says. "Do you know of anything that could help you throw up? A plant maybe? Like that drink they serve in the Capitol."

I know nothing about jungle plants, and even less about ones used to purge on purpose. There is one plant though. It didn't grow in the woods outside District 12, but my father told me about it while reviewing poisonous plants to avoid. He said there was a syrup made from tropic plants that would help empty your stomach before the poison set in.

"Ipecac," I say. "I'm not sure that I'd know it if I saw it."

Peeta nods somberly. "We sure could use a parachute right now."

We both glance at the sky, but all we see is a thick canopy of trees.

"All right, we'll think of a distraction," I say, that part of his plan is obvious. "Then what? We don't want to stall their mission with the tree, and it's not like they'll just leave us behind."

"Right, but we can split them up, and then it'll be two against one," Peeta says. "We'll be playing against time. The lightning tree strikes at midnight, and before that, the eleven o'clock sector will be active."

"The buzzing insects," I say. We've only heard them lurking in that part of the jungle, but what they are capable of is still a mystery. "I wouldn't want to be trapped with those."

"Hopefully no one else will either," Peeta says. "If we make it through before the buzzing starts, we'll have an active sector between us, and we can avoid the others until after the lightning strike."

I wish we could take off now, and disappear into the jungle without the other tributes paying us a second thought. Peeta's plan makes enough sense, but I've already calculated and anguished over all the ways it could go wrong. 

"Okay," I say anyway, then wrap my arms around him to calm my nerves. He drops the water basket at our feet to hold me, the safety of his chest as warm and inviting as ever. I'll miss this most, I think, clinging desperately to what I have left with him.

We stand like this long enough for a silver parachute to float to the jungle floor.

"Is it ipecac?" Peeta asks as I untangle the package.

"No," I say. "More bread." A loaf from District 4.

"What do you think Haymitch is trying to say?"

The same thing he was trying to say with Finnick and the bangle. That we should trust him. But I don't understand why.

I turn the loaf over in my hands. Peeta's idea for a distraction is decent, but I don't like the idea of making myself sick. Purposely injuring yourself in the arena never did anyone any favors, and if we're going to outwit the others, adding extra obstacles isn't going to help. I'm already worried about outrunning Johanna or Finnick with Peeta's bad leg to handicap myself as well.

I let some of the bread crumble between my fingers, falling into the water basin at my feet. When I scoop up and handful, it's slimy and splats against the jungle floor. I shred the rest of the bread until it forms a mushy consistency and begin spooning it into the parachute tied to my belt, making sure that it doesn't leak. It weighs lower on my hip, but not enough to be noticeable.

"What are you doing?" Peeta asks curiously.

"One upset stomach," I say, proudly presenting my contraption. 

We review the details of our plan before returning to the beach where the others are waiting.

The anthem begins some time later, signaling our time to leave camp, and the five of us head toward the twelve o'clock beach. We're at the edge of the jungle when Peeta's protest stops us.

"Wait. Shouldn't we be laying out wire? I thought the point was to charge the water," he says.

"We'll do that later," Beetee reasons. "After we've wrapped the tree."

"Won't we have to double back then?" Peeta argues.

There's an uneasiness that spreads, as Finnick and Johanna turn questioning looks onto Beetee as well.

"We want to stay away from the beach, right?" Peeta adds.

"The careers could see the wire and cut in," Johanna says.

"Then we can bury it," I say.

Peeta suggests tying the end of the wire to a heavy rock and he and Finnick wade out into the water until it's chest deep to anchor it there. Meanwhile, I take an arrow and dig into the sand, dragging it behind me to form a trench for Beetee to unspool the wire, Johanna following behind to pat the sand clean. A few yards into the jungle, we wrap the spool around a log to create a new anchor point so our sand trap won't be disturbed.

We hike up the twelve o'clock sector towards the lightening tree by the light of the moon. Our pace slow from our full stomachs, giving us plenty of time to conceal the wire beneath the jungle landscape and erase our tracks.

My stomach feels uneasy from the oysters and I don't have to do much pretending to look queasy. When I judge that we're about halfway up the hill, I begin to fall back behind the rest of the group.

"You okay, Katniss?" Peeta says, stepping to my side to shield me from view as I untie the parachute on my belt and shovel soggy bread into my mouth. It's hot from baking in the jungle heat and I gag immediately on the vile taste, spitting it violently on the ground.

"What's going on?" says Johanna, now standing before us.

"She got sick," Peeta says.

I stand straight, still clutching my stomach. "I'm fine," I say, stumbling dramatically when I take a step forward. Peeta catches me by the elbow before I can fall and holds me upright. 

"She looks fine to me," Johanna says, folding her arms across her chest.

"She's not," he insists. "You guys keep going, we'll catch up."

As we expected, she isn't buying it. "You go on with Finnick and Beetee. I'll look after her."

"You think you can carry her," Peeta says, when I stumble on another step.

"I'll get her to walk," she says. "And if I not, I'll drag her if I have to."

Finnick moves down the hill. "I'll take her," he says. "You two go look after Beetee."

Peeta lifts me into his arms before Finnick can reach us. "I'll look after her and you can look after Beetee," he says definitively, leaving no other room for discussion.

"We don't have much time, we have to move,"  Beetee says impatiently. 

Finnick and Johanna exchange a look. "All right, Finnick and Beetee will head for the tree and I'll cover these two," Johanna says. "If we're not at the tree in ten minutes, we'll meet in the one o'clock sector."

No one seems happy with the arrangement, but we quietly agree, watching as Beetee and Finnick disappear briskly through the brush with the wire trailing behind them. We follow at a slower pace, quick enough so it doesn't look like we're purposely stalling. 

When the leaves no longer rustle in the wake of Finnick and Beetee's path, I take my second cue, thumping on Peeta's chest and demanding he put me down. I dart towards a tree and begin to heave, my bow choked tightly against my chest. 

"Enough with the dramatics, please. We're running out of time," Johanna snaps. She grips on my shoulder and forces me to turn around. My stomach twisting with guilt as I swing my bow wildly into her gut.

She catches it though, using the force of her upper hand to knock me off my feet and I crash into the tree behind me. "You're going to regret this," she grunts. The breath is momentarily knocked from my chest and I gasp to regain it, watching in horror as Peeta unsuccessfully tries to land a blow to the back of her head.

Johanna frees an ax from her belt and turns the blade to his throat, stopping just before the sharp edge kisses his skin, another ax in her other hand and aimed toward me.

"Are you two done now?" she says, hardly winded from the exertion. She waits for me to call her bluff and make a move to disarm her, knowing that I'd never risk Peeta's life. "Couldn't just wait until tomorrow?"

My eyes lock with Peeta's, his lips spelling out the word:  _run_.

"Figured we'd make it easier for you," I say. "Had to happen eventually, right?"

Johanna shakes her head in disgust. "I can't believe you've already forgotten who the enemy is."

The words sting, ringing somewhere in my memory, but before I can place them, Johanna drops to the ground, her legs twisted between Peeta, who has her pinned. He reaches for the log he'd dropped earlier and knocks her out with a single blow.

I ready my arrow, aiming it at her heart. I can picture half of Panem on the edge of their seats. The game makers scrambling to ready a canon. This act of betrayal is the moment viewers have no doubt been salivating over for days.

My hands tremble as I will myself to release the string, but I'm paralyzed. Helpless. Because I know deep down that Johanna isn't my enemy. 

I lower my bow. "I can't do it," I tell Peeta.

He nods somberly, looking as sick as I feel at the idea. "Then don't."

He wraps me in his arms, and I relax against his chest. "She wasn't going to kill us," I whisper.

But why? We made the first move. We ended the alliance. And in this game, there's no room for forgiveness. There's no time to dwell on it though. 

"We have to go," Peeta says, urging me to start toward the eleven o'clock sector.

I hesitate, unable to look away from Johanna's slumped form. Wondering what will happen to her when the lightning strikes. I back away slowly, but before I break into a run, I shout at the top of my lungs, "Finnick!" because if she can't kill me, I can't kill her either.

Peeta and I run as fast as we can toward the sound of crashing water. Through the dense thicket of trees I can see the wall of the force field separating the ten o'clock sector, holding the water like a glass as the wedge is flooded. A giant ripple breaks the surface as the tidal wave rips through it, washing away debris in a frenzied, swirling motion.

As the waters begin to calm, I can hear a faint buzzing sound grow around us, indicating that the eleven o'clock hour is upon us. I push myself to run faster, checking over my shoulder to make sure Peeta is still behind me.

Something sharp snaps against my collarbone, the buzz of the insect muttation screaming in my ear. I shout at the pain, but refuse to slow, even as a second then a third latch onto my arms and legs. 

We cross the boundary as a swarm of the things hurdle behind us, bouncing against the invisible wall like a snap of elastic. I slap away the bugs still clinging to my skin as Peeta does the same.

"Are you all right?" I say in between shallow breaths.

Peeta nods. "You?"

I assess the damage left behind by the beetles. The cuts are nasty looking, but treatable. If we'd been trapped in that wedge, we probably would have been eaten alive.

I untie the parachute from my belt, scowling at the remnants of soggy bread that coats the contents. Fishing out the tube of ointment, I wipe it clean on my leg then pass it to Peeta.

"For your bites," I say. "It'll stop the bleeding for now."

I set aside the spile next, then pinch the pearl between my fingers, hiding it in my fist when I notice Peeta watching me. I feel embarrassed, like I've been caught doing something I shouldn't have, and I don't know why. Peeta doesn't say anything, and I'm glad.

"I'm going to tap a tree," I say shyly.

After I've rinsed out the parachute, we assess our supplies, huddled behind the base of a wide tree.

"What now?" Peeta asks.

The jungle is eerily quiet. Almost peaceful, with the remnants of the tidal wave dripping from the leaves like rain water. 

"I don't know," I say. "I guess I didn't think we'd make it this far."

"That's promising," he says drolly. "What are the chances there's a nice comfy cave nearby?"

"Not very good," I say.

"Hmm," Peeta says, tapping his finger against his chin. "Why don't we climb up in one of those nut trees and live there until this whole thing blows over," he decides.

We'd have food, water, and decent cover, how terribly boring for viewers thirsty for blood.

"Until they change the clock again and we're fried by lightening," I say. "I don't trust the trees. I don't trust the ground either."

What I'd really like to do is stash Peeta away some place safe while I pick off the rest of the tributes, but how am I supposed to do that when I can't even kill Johanna? 

"Well it's safer than the beach," says Peeta. "For now, at least."

"The lightening should be starting soon," I say, looking up at the night sky.

In less than an hour we'll see just how clever Beetee's plan was, and how many predators we'll still have to account for.

Suddenly everything goes silent, and I touch my ear, snapping my finger beside it to test my hearing.

"Something's wrong," I say, when I hear it clearly.

The moonlight begins to flicker, and when I look to the moon I realize the entire sky is vibrating. Fuzzy. Like the chink in the force field has swallowed it whole. The sky breaks into an explosion of light, blinding me momentarily until my eyes can adjust to the brightness, only to realize that it's day. 

The skies are no longer the cotton candy color of the arena, but clear and bright and blue like the ones back home. A hovercraft whizzes through the sky followed by another, flanked by smaller aircraft that swoop and dive in tight formation. Small puffs of smoke tail one of the hovercrafts until suddenly, its wing ignites, red and hot. 

The sputter of the engine is loud, and grows deeper as the craft spirals to the earth, landing somewhere in the four o'clock section. The impact enough to make the entire arena rattle.

"What's going on?" Peeta shouts as another three hovercraft fill the sky.

"I don't know," I reply. "We should find cover." 

Before I can move, I notice there's a light in Peeta's arm that's flashing erratically. I look at my own arm -- the one with the implanted tracker, to see that mine is flashing too. Then I feel the telltale current buzz through my body, similar to the ladder that drops from a hovercraft, and I'm frozen in place.

My eyes are stuck looking down on my arm, so I can't see the hovercraft as it moves over us, only the shadow it makes as it blocks the sun. Ladders descend and two peacekeepers appear to disable our trackers. They force us toward the ladders and again I'm paralyzed as we ascend to the hovercraft.

Before I can gather my bearings, a needle jabs me from behind. The last thing I see are Peeta's eyes roll to the back of his head as he collapses beside me.

* * *

When I wake, it's to a familiar room with no doors or windows. The same one that held me after the first Games. I lift a hand to find perfectly polished skin and clean fingernails. The charred ends of my hair have been clipped, and the strands are now silky and knot free.

The wall slides open to reveal Effie Trinket, who is escorted by a peacekeeper rather than an avox.

"Oh good, you're awake," she says.

I sit up as much as the band across my waist will allow. "What's happening? Where's Peeta?" I ask.

"Recovering," she says. "The big interview is tonight."

"Interview? But what about the Games? They weren't finished."

"You've won," she says. 

That's impossible though. I don't remember hearing any canons, which means there were still eight tributes left.

"Where's Haymitch?" I demand.

Effie's usually composed expression falters. She turns her head to address the peacekeeper beside her then takes a step towards me, lowering her voice to say, "He's gone."

"Gone?"

She busies herself by straightening my blankets and fluffing my pillow. Her usual demur movements, sharp with annoyance. "Him and the other mentors, they've disappeared. Left. I don't know. Nobody tells me anything!"

"What about the other tributes?" 

"There's no time for that," Effie says. The wall opens up again and Flavius, Octavia, and Venia enter.

My heart breaks as I'm reminded of Cinna. "He's dead, isn't he?" I say, and their sober faces are all I need in answer.

"We have to get you cleaned up," Effie says, her smile uncharacteristically apologetic. "The President would like to see you."

My prep team is silent as they bathe and dress me in a plain white dress, refusing to meet my eye even as they apply makeup to my face.

Peacekeepers come to escort me down a series of sterile white hallways and into a room with two chairs, where President Snow is already waiting. It's almost laughable to see such a grand man in this stark and lifeless setting, especially with him dressed in his exuberant Capitol robes.

There's no reason for pretense anymore, so I cut straight to the point as soon as I'm seated. "Why am I still alive?" I ask. 

He's in no rush, and calmly waves in an avox with a cart filled with pastries and a delicate looking China set. I refuse his offer of tea, and watch as he stirs cream and sugar into his own cup.

"There still may be use for you yet, Miss Everdeen," he says before he takes a sip. "You might not be aware of this, but it came to my attention that there was a plot between a select number of victors to escape the arena."

The realization practically knocks me from my chair. It all makes sense now. Beetee's plan with the wire. It was so elaborate and complicated that I barely understood it myself; it was easy to be fooled by it. The point wasn't to kill the careers; it was to destroy the arena. That was why Haymitch was so adamant that we trust Finnick. And why Johanna didn't kill us when she had the chance. They were trying to rescue us.

I can feel the blood drain from my face, leaving me dizzy and cold. I had forgotten who the enemy was, and now I'm back in his hand.

"What happened to them?" I ask.

"There's no need to concern yourself with that," he says, his puffy pink lips curling into a smile that makes my stomach turn. "What's important is that we put a stop to it, and now you're here."

"What are you going to do to me? Kill me?"

"Oh no, the opposition would much prefer a martyr. I've told you before, killing you at this point would only influence the misguided."

"You seemed awfully eager to have me dead when you reaped me again."

"Yes," he nods. "Power is a funny thing." He places his empty cup on the drink cart. "A victor is the closest thing to power that someone in the districts will ever see. We feed you, shower you with riches, and even invite you to enjoy the Capitol way of life. But that power is a farce, and I wanted it made clear, that abusing that power would not be tolerated and could as easily be taken away."

"And how'd that work out for you?" I say.

"There were a few miscalculations," he admits. "But I'm happy with our current position." 

I look away when I realize what he's implying. This rebellion may have struck with its first big move, but if the prize was me, then Snow is still winning.

"I think this arrangement between us would be far more beneficial if we decided to be friends," he says, and although his tone is friendly, all I can hear is the hissing of a snake.

"I'd rather die."

"Would you?" he says. "You keep saying that, yet here you are. Still breathing." I have no answer, so he continues. "This nation is taken by you. They see you as a symbol of empowerment when all you are is a scared and selfish girl. This isn't about a rebellion to you, it's about your own survival, and I want the districts to see that until your fire is extinguished and the mockingjay is nothing more than a song bird again."

"Perhaps if you treated the districts fairly, there wouldn't be a problem," I say.

He laughs. "Oh Miss Everdeen, you don't know the first thing about politics. Suppose I listened to these demands. More food, better conditions, everyone treated as equals. But you've seen it for yourself in the arena. Not everyone is built the same. There are those who are more clever and strong, and they are rewarded for their excellence, while the weak are weeded out time and time again. It's the natural progression of things. Look at you, you've figured out how to play the game better than anyone. You've proven your worth Miss Everdeen. You're no rebel. You're one of us."

"That's not true."

"Is that so?" he says. "I'm willing to test this theory of mine by giving you a choice. I'll free you. I'll deliver you to the rebels' front door if that's what you want, and you can rally the troops to your heart's desire. But your fiance stays with me."

I try my best to mask my reaction, keeping my voice level and firm as I say, "Why Peeta? I thought this all started because I couldn't convince you."

"Then the decision should be easy for you."

I feel my pulse spike in my throat, and I fear that the President can see how shaken I am by his bargain. "Peeta's innocent," I try to say calmly. "Free him and keep me instead?"

"How noble, but I'm afraid he's already volunteered to stay. Miss Everdeen, you must know there's no war without casualties. Now tell me, what are you willing to sacrifice? Your revolution or the boy?"

"And if I stay?"

He smirks, like he knew that's what I'd say. "You'll have your wedding, your baby, a long and joyful life to share with the public. And through this, you will tell your people to lay down their weapons before everything they love is destroyed."

My heart breaks in my chest, and all I can think of is what this will mean for my mother and sister. I'll never see them again, I know as much as that, but what else will my actions cost them. "My family will be protected."

"That sounds reasonable. See how reasonable I can be?" 

"Okay," I say. "I'll do it. I'll stay."

His grin widens menacingly. "Just as I thought." He orders the avox to collect the refreshments, then invites my guards in as well. "Now, you've got an interview to prepare for. People are so excited to see their beloved couple reunite. To think, you'll finally be getting all you've ever wanted."

I'm escorted back to my room, but I have no recollection of the journey. My mind is too busy reeling. On Finnick, Beetee, and Johanna. On Haymitch. On Prim and my mother. On Gale. On the tributes who sacrificed themselves to ensure that I would survive. Would they act so selfishly when faced with the same choice?

My only respite is the thought of Peeta, and I sit impatiently through my prep in anticipation of being reunited with him. He'll know what to do, and even if he doesn't, at least I won't be alone.

When I spot him backstage, I throw myself into his arms, clinging onto him so tightly; my fingernails rip through the material of his coat. He pulls away, his disappointed frown plaguing me with guilt as he looks me over.

"What are you still doing here?" he says. "You should have gone."

Regardless of my decision, I don't trust the President to keep his word. I never would have been freed, he only wanted to know that I'd be willing to cooperate, and he knew the exact weapon to use against me.

"I wouldn't leave you behind. You must know that by now." I hug him tightly, reveling in the brief moment of relief. 

"Katniss..." I don't let him argue with me, and I silence him with a kiss.

"Have you heard?" I ask him quietly.

He glances over my shoulder to make sure that no one's too close to hear. "Bits and pieces," he replies. He runs his fingers through my hair, smiling slightly at the shortened length then leans forward to whisper in my ear, "I guess we were both left out of the secret this time."

"Haymitch is nothing if not fair." 

"He's certainly short sighted," he says, sounding annoyed. "We should have stayed with the others."

"Did they even make it out?" He nods. "How do you know?"

"I overheard some of the mentors outside my room going on about a suicide mission. He must have been from District 2, because he mentioned Enobaria being kidnapped by those 'damn radicals'."

"Did he say where they went?" I ask, and Peeta shakes his head. 

"Peeta, I don't know what to do," I admit, the last bits of strength I have left crumbling, leaving me trembling.

He takes my hand into his, holding it firmly. "I don't either."

On stage, Caesar Flickerman announces our names and we enter to the sound of rapturous applause.


	2. Everybody Look What's Going Round

The nightmare consumes me, suffocating me until I feel like I'm drowning, and when I wake, I'm still gasping for air. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. Bare walls, no windows. I'm not in District Twelve or an arena. No, it's my cell in the Capitol.

I reach for the loose threads piled on my bedside table and begin to count. Eighteen. It's been eighteen days since the Hunger Games ended, when Haymitch along with Plutarch Heavensbee stole a hovercraft and shut down the arena, rescuing all of the surviving tributes except for Peeta and me.

Nobody knows where they've gone, but uprisings continue to plague the districts. Last week, fire bombs silenced protests in District Eight. The entire district is gone. I will not let District Twelve suffer the same fate.

The sheets have been pulled from the bed through my struggle, and I rise to fix them, my hands trembling too roughly to function.

I move to the door and pound against it. "Let me out!" I shout.

The door slides open and a guard I don't recognize enters. I look him over, my nose wrinkling with disgust. 

"I want to talk to her," I say.

The guard must be new to the night shift, because he looks tired, scrubbing a hand over his face as he contemplates my request.

"It's after hours," he says.

"I don't care. I was promised unrestricted access."

He lets out a heavy sigh, then lifts his wrist to engage the communicuff on his arm. "The girl wants to make a phone call." I can't distinguish the muffled response, but he can, and he raises his voice to answer, "I know that! Can you get the machine running?" Another pause. "Yeah? We're on our way."

He steps aside and nods for me to pass through the door. In the hallway, he begins typing out the exit code.

"0773," I rattle off when he stumbles over the last few digits.

He looks like he's trying to verify the code, but loses his place on the screen, and presses the numbers I told him.

"New here?" I ask sweetly.

"Reassigned," he says. "This way."

I follow him down the corridor, lit only by artificial light. Locked in the basement of the President's mansion, artificial light is the only type I see now. The guard leads me to the last room in the hallway, where a handset sits on a small table.

"Make it quick, all right?" he says.

I slip into the room and wait for the door to close behind me before I lift the phone to my ear. There are no buttons, so I have to wait for the operator in the control room to connect the call.

"Hello?" comes a familiar voice from the other end.

Relief melts away the stress that had me in knots. "Hey, Little Duck," I say.

"Katniss, it's early," she says.

"Not here," I say, my voice breaking slightly. "It's late here."

"I forget how far away the Capitol is."

My heart breaks into a thousand pieces -- one for every mile that separates us. I long to see my family again. Prim, my mother, even that damn cat.

"It is, but the trains are so fast, it takes no time at all. I'll be home as soon as it's safe to travel again," I lie, knowing that I'll probably never set foot outside the Capitol again.

"Do you promise?"

"Of course," I say.

"Katniss, I'm tired."

I close my eyes and picture her face, holding desperately to the image before it fades away. "I'm sorry for waking you," I say. "Go back to sleep. I love you, Prim."

"I love you too." 

The line goes dead, and I let the tears I was holding back fall freely. I wipe my face clean before the door slides open, masking my expression with a hardened scowl when my guard steps in to escort me back to my cell.

The hallways all look the same and seem to wrap and intersect in an intricate maze. It's a wonder how the guards don't get lost. I'd previously taken to leaving scuff marks with my boot to mark my path, but by the next day, the floors were always polished clean, and I was just as out of sorts as before.

There are a few tricks I've learned about security though, and when my guard steps up to unlock my cell, I clear my throat and say, "This is 0773, I'm in 0775, it's the next one."

He looks at me skeptically and continues to punch in the code on the door, his face turning red when the door on the next cell slides open. It's on a timer, and I hurry inside before it shuts again.

I smile when I spot Peeta sitting up in his bed, looking startled. He relaxes at the sight of me, and smiles back.

"Reprogramming the locks again?" he says, shifting to the edge of the mattress to make room for me as I climb in beside him.

"I had a nightmare," I say. He wraps his arms around me and I settle my cheek against his chest.

"I know," he says. "I could hear you earlier."

"Did I wake you? I'm sorry."

"Nah, I couldn't sleep anyway." 

I know the feeling. Most nights my mind's too busy spinning with thoughts of home, and the rebellion, and whatever Snow has planned for us, I rarely find any rest. It's only when I'm able to sneak into Peeta's cell that I come close to sleep. There's no place else that I feel safe.

He begins to stroke his fingers lightly up and down the length of my back. The motion soothing and I find my eyelids growing heavier by the second. "Did you talk to your sister?" he asks and I nod lazily against his chest. "How is she?"

"Fine, I think," I murmur. "She was half asleep."

And soon, I am too, until finally, I surrender completely. 

* * *

It became clear early on that while we were undoubtedly prisoners, because we had to remain camera ready, the guards were the ones who bore the brunt for our insubordination. That's why, when they find us in the same cell the next morning, they look relieved rather than angry.

"Come on, the both of you," one of the guards says impatiently. "You're shooting today."

A special television studio has been erected in the President's mansion so that Peeta and I have no reason to leave the premises. There's a small dressing room where our prep teams are waiting for us. The first time we were brought here, we didn't have to ask what had happened to Portia.

My face is cleaned and any flaws are covered with powder as my hair is twisted into a tight bun. Once Flavius finishes applying red lipstick, he steps aside so I can see my reflection in the mirror. I look like a 35 year old more than seventeen.

The dress they have me in is modest and matronly too. A blue, plaid number that buttons up the front and is cinched together at the waist with a matching sash. Gone is the girl in cute, flowery dresses who was too dumb and in love to think rationally, and in her place is a wise and expecting mother, not only to a child that never existed, but to a broken nation, desperate to be mended.

We're filming an advertisement today in support of the war effort, and the set is of a quaint looking kitchen, similar to the ones they put in the houses of Victor's Village.

The director presses a can into my hand, and begins running through the lines that scroll past on a monitor beside the camera.

"During these tough times, it's important to do what we can to help out. And there's no easier way than through rationing. Canned Panem is easy to prepare, and tastes just like the real thing!"

"Enter Peeta," the director says, tapping on where his mark is at the eat in kitchen.

Peeta sits behind a bowl of what is surely a tepid bowl of soup that's been sitting there all morning. He pretends to scoop a spoonful into his mouth.

"Wow, Katniss," he intones. "This is delicious! But I thought we agreed to cut back. Where did you even find fresh lamb?"

My line is the next to scroll past, "In a can!" I reply stupidly. 

"Next mark," the director says, and I look at the floor to find the 'x' placed beside Peeta's chair. I step beside him and place my hand on his shoulder.

"Mmm, sweetheart, this is better than a home cooked meal," he says.

"And then we cut to the tag line," the director says. "All right, we'll take it from the top, and this time it counts. Give the kid a break and heat up the soup while we set up," he says, directing an avox who stands off camera.

Although I've done nothing to disturb it, I'm placed in a chair to have my makeup reapplied. I don't mind though, because the monitors are playing the daily news briefing, and it's one of the rare chances I get to catch glimpses of home.

The main news anchor finishes the headlines for the day before checking in with the reporters on location in each district. Luckily, I don't have to sit through all the other districts, because for once, District Twelve goes first. The reporter is reviewing track repair and how it will affect coal deliveries, but it's hard to follow when all I can focus on is the color of the shutters on the Justice Building. 

For a long time they were this deep, rusty color that turned increasingly gray as the paint peeled and cracked to reveal the weathered wood beneath it. One of our projects at school a few years back was to vote on a new color, and a community event was held to restore them. They've been dark green ever since.

But in the footage, I can clearly see a red glow around each board in the distance. I try not to dwell on it, but I can't help thinking of District Thirteen, and the looped footage of the mockingjay flying past. Before I can make sense of it I'm called back to the set.

I stand on my mark, clutching the stupid can of stew in my hands while the crew prepares the lighting. Beyond the line of the camera I see a woman step out from another room in the studio. The same woman who mere seconds ago was reporting live from District Twelve.

I can't focus on anything around me; my mind is traveling a thousand miles a minute. The televisions crack with static and the image of my mockingjay pin fills the screen, and then I hear it, although the volume is too low for the words to come out completely clear.

"I volunteer! Will you?"

And my heart drops into my stomach, because I know that voice. It belongs to Prim.

* * *

I've never trusted the Capitol and their usual string of propaganda, but I thought I'd taken enough precautions to verify Prim's safety. Seeing her in person was impossible, as the Capitol wouldn't risk losing custody of me and I didn't want Prim setting foot near the city walls, but we've spoken on the phone nearly every day. And that person has undoubtedly been her.

Knowing that our conversations are monitored, I'm careful not to talk too much, worried that one of us might say something incriminating. But still, there are details, even inane ones, that only she could remember. Words that only she could say.

Unless the Capitol had been listening for a while. We've been living in that house in Victor's Village for a year now, and who knows how much footage they've gotten of Prim during interviews over the last two Games. 

They've manipulated it once with the jabberjays. When Finnick and I were trapped in the wedge listening to our loved ones suffer.

When I return to my cell, I barely touch my dinner, turning my spoon in my soup until it's cold. The guard returns to collect my tray, and I ask to call Prim, like I always do this time of night, hoping he can't detect the shift in my mood.

"Fine," he says, placing the call to the control room through his communicuff. 

Once Prim and I are connected, I keep things casual and mention nothing of my suspicions of the District Twelve footage or hearing her voice during the mysterious transmission. I push all of those thoughts to the back of my mind, and instead focus all of my attention on Prim's voice -- the things she says, and the way she says them.

After we've worked through the usual pleasantries, about our mother and the Hawthornes and the rest of the district, I take the opportunity to broach my concerns.

"Have you been eating enough? Are the trains still delivering parcels?" I say.

"Of course," she says. "Although it mostly comes in cans now."

I almost tell her about the commercial I had to shoot, but catch myself before I get off track.

"Well even if the cans run out, you'll get by. We always do." I chew on the inside of my cheek until I have the courage to say it. "I was telling Peeta about how we used to dig up roots, remember? We'd sneak into other peoples' yards along with our neighbor if we saw they had the plant. I can't for the life of me remember the girl's name. She lived two, maybe three houses from us, and we'd mash the roots with other spices to make tea. Do you know it?"

"Our old house?" she says, and I don't miss how nervous she sounds.

"Yes, yes," I say, not letting her on to my suspicion. "There were the Johnston's on the left and the Alton's on the right, and then she lived on the other side of them." I snap my fingers together, like I'm trying to make the name conjure from thin air.

"I don't..." she begins, and an impossible lump forms in my throat at the admission. Prim would never forget Lillian Edmund's name. She was reaped the year before I was.

I forget how to breathe, my chest constricting painfully at the realization. I refuse to believe it, because the alternative is too painful. The alternative is losing contact with Prim completely. Not knowing her fate.

"It was Bristel Gartner!" I interrupt before I lose her trust -- or the trust of whoever's listening. "I can't believe I couldn't remember."

"That's right," she says.

"I've been away too long! I probably wouldn't even recognize you if I saw you!" I say.

"Hopefully you'll come home soon," she says.

"I hope so too, Little Duck," I say vacantly, before terminating the call, unable to shake the feeling that there's no home to come back to.

I'm a ghost as I'm returned to my cell. I sit on my bed, staring at the wall, unable to lie down and close my eyes, because I know the horrors that await me in sleep will be worse than ever before.

I'm not sure how much time has passed before my guard returns, but it certainly can't be morning. I'm in no mood for his presence, and turn my back to him when the door opens.

"Somebody has some questions for you," my guard says impatiently.

"I've already told you a hundred times before," I say petulantly. "I don't know anything."

"Well they've thought up some new questions," he replies.

A cold chill rattles my spine as I wonder if this has anything to do with the mockingjay image I saw earlier. The one that played along with what I'm sure was Prim's voice.

I steel my expression, and don't bother fighting when he yanks my arm roughly to pull me to my feet.

The room I'm led to is the same as all the others. Bare white walls. No windows and a door that only reveals itself when it's opened. There's a lone chair beneath a bright lamp, and beside it is a small metal table full of tools I don't recognize.

There's a man waiting, and when he smiles at me, my stomach turns uneasily.

"Good evening, you must be Katniss Everdeen," he says in a pleasant tone. "I'm Gaius Antonius. Please, have a seat, make yourself comfortable."

"I'd rather stand, thank you," I say, but I quickly lose the option when one of his assistants shoves me towards the chair.

"These are just precautions," Antonius says as a strap is fastened across my chest, and my wrists and ankles are shackled into place. "I assure you, this will be quite pleasant so long as you cooperate."

"I haven't done anything," I say, fighting against the restraints. "I've done everything I've been told. Why are you doing this?"

It's as if he can't even hear me as he clasps his hands together and smiles at me calmly. "Miss Everdeen, have you ever heard of District 13?"

My pulse spikes. "Of course," I say evenly. "It was one of the districts before the Dark Days. They mined graphite. Then when the war broke out, Thirteen was destroyed. It's still radioactive, they say. Whenever there's a story on the news, the reporter is always dressed in a funny suit." 

Antonius picks up one of the tools from the table. It begins to hum when he flips a switch on the side. "And you've never heard any rumors of it? Any folklore of people living underground."

Bonnie. Twill. The nuclear bombs hidden beneath the surface of the earth.

"No," I lie. "But you obviously have."

He jabs the tool into my side, but it's no tool at all, it's a weapon, and a sharp current rips through my belly, sending surging hot pain to the tips of my fingers. I cry out so loudly I can feel the metallic taste of blood rip through my throat.

He releases the charge and my body collapses limply against the chair. I struggle to lift my head, but my muscles are all worthless.

"What were you saying about District 13?" he says.

Nothing, I know nothing, I want to say. I had a stupid hunch about a lost city, but it didn't mean anything. Haymitch and the others certainly aren't hiding there. He laughed at every one of my harebrained theories of the place. Then again, he lied to me about the rebellion too, and the plan about the arena. Maybe he tried to throw me off the scent of District 13 before I found out too much.

"It doesn't exist."

The white hot current buzzes through me once more. I feel like I'm on fire, the slow burn bound to rip me apart until I burst.

What if they're all hiding in Thirteen? With Prim and my mother, and maybe Gale along with them.

"What do you know about District 13?" he repeats, and the pain becomes blinding. My eyes water and drool dribbles down my chin. My fingers twitch even when the current stops.

"Nothing."

It starts again.

"What do you know?"

I don't even bother to respond anymore; only embrace the electricity as it slowly kills me.

It stops, and I wonder if maybe I'm dead. My head is too heavy to lift, and I'm stuck staring down at my chest. A small drip of blood falls from my nose and lands on my clean white robe.

"All right," Antonius announces to the room. "She doesn't know anything. I believe her." 

I feel his assistant's hands before I see him as he lifts my head by my chin and straps it against the headrest.

"Let's see what the boy knows."

The wall opens up, but glass still separates us. It's a special kind because, while I can see Peeta as clear as day, he doesn't seem to see me, even when I scream his name.

He's strapped to a similar chair, flanked by a pair of guards who wield the same weapon Antonius used on me.

"Now tell me, what does he know about District 13?"

I gather enough strength to shake my head, but it doesn't move far with the restraints. "He doesn't know anything, I swear. Please, leave him out of this. He doesn't know anything!"

"Well if neither one of you knows anything, it's really not fair that only you have been made to suffer," he says, then presses a button on the wall. A light flashes in Peeta's room, and the guards jab their electric wands into his sides.

He convulses at the current and screams out in pain. The agony I feel at the sight is worse than when I was struck myself. All I can think about is his heart stopping when he hit the force field, and whether it can survive this kind of abuse.

"Stop it! Please! Please! Stop it!" I shout.

"What do you know about District 13?" Antonius grunts.

They must up the amperage, because this time when they strike Peeta, the sound he makes is from another world. I can't take the torture a moment longer and I begin to sob openly.

"I can't, please stop," I beg.

"It's a very simple question, Miss Everdeen, what do you know?"

I heave for breath, closing my eyes so I don't have watch, but I can't erase the image from my mind. They're going to kill him, I know it. And it's all my fault.

"Stop, please," I cry. "There were people in the woods. Two of them from District 8. One of them was a kid, she couldn't have been a danger. They didn't have any food or weapons, and their shoes didn't even fit. They weren't a threat. They were looking for District 13, because they'd heard that the people moved underground. They claimed the footage of District 13 the news always showed was the same looped over and over. That the Capitol doesn't go there at all."

He flashes the light again and the guards stop. "Why not?" Antonius says.

"Because they have bombs. Big ones. Enough to level your city the way you leveled theirs."

"Is that where your friends are hiding?"

"No," I say, and technically I'm not lying, because it's exactly what Haymitch told me. "When I told Haymitch about it he called me crazy."

I hold my breath to keep my expression unreadable while Antonius stares at me hard. 

"That's enough for now," he says, addressing my guards.

"What about Peeta?" I say desperately. "Please don't kill him. Please."

"Why would I do that?" he says looking accosted by the suggestion. "You two have a big interview tomorrow."

My guard practically has to carry me back to my cell, and I'm far too exhausted and weak to put up much of a fight. He goes to open the wrong door and I look up at him in question.

"Our little secret," he says, before nudging me into Peeta's room.

I can only look at him like a lost animal, meeting the eye of a hunter right before it takes its last breath. I wait for some sort of blow, but it doesn't come. "Thank you," I say.

Peeta's already sprawled out motionless on the bed, and I dart quickly to his side, sitting beside him and pulling his head into my lap.

"Peeta, wake up," I beg, brushing his wavy hair from his eyes. "Are you all right?"

He groans before his eyes open. He squints like the lights are too bright, but the room is mostly dark. "They didn't even ask me any questions," he mumbles.

"I know, I'm sorry," I say. "It's all my fault."

"How? Katniss, what's going on?" he says, his voice still ragged, barely breaking a whisper.

I shift on the bed to lie beside him, our heads resting on the same pillow. "They wanted to know about District Thirteen," I say quietly into his ear, so the microphones that are surely planted in the room can't pick up a sound.

His eyes are narrowed when I pull away to look at him. "What about it?" he says. 

It feels like before, when Haymitch and I would keep secrets that Peeta was only let in on when we made an unmendable mess of things. I can't give Peeta a reason not to trust me. We're in this together; just the two of us, so I decide tell him everything.

"I think the rebels are hiding in Thirteen, and I think the Capitol knows it."

"Why there though? It's nothing but a radioactive wasteland," he says.

"They say they live underground. That they built bombs before the Dark Days, and that's why the Capitol leaves them alone."

"They're afraid of them," he says. "The Capitol knows that the rebellion doesn't stand a chance without firepower."

"Yeah? But what happens when they start firing?" I counter.

Peeta closes his eyes and sighs. I hate that I've sprung this on him while he's obviously not in the state for it.

"Peeta, I think the rebels have my sister," I say, because, if I'm being honest, that's the part that troubles me most.

"That's good, it means she's safe."

"I don't think she is," I say. "I saw a transmission today, while we were filming the commercial. It was of a mockingjay, so I don't think it was something the Capitol meant for anyone to see. At the end, I swear I heard Prim's voice."

"Don't you speak with her every day?" he questions.

I shake my head slowly. "I don't think I have."

Once again I feel trapped at a crossroad, faced with an impossible decision. The rebels must be watching us, and if I can figure out a way to warn them that the Capitol is closing in on them, I can protect Prim. But what will happen to Peeta? I know with full certainty that any act of betrayal will be taken out solely on him.

I should just wait. District Thirteen must be ready for a counterattack if they're arrogant enough to play around with their transmissions. Still, I can't sit quietly when I know my sister is involved.

It's a sleepless night, even in the comfort of Peeta's arms. It used to be so easy to sit idly by. To follow the way of things and never question them. But I'm not that girl anymore. I never saw myself as the Mockingjay. Never felt ready for the responsibility, but I can no longer avoid the call.

"We're not doing any good here, Peeta," I whisper. "We're not protecting anyone."

He's still awake, because I feel his chest rise and fall with a heavy breath. "I know," he says sadly.

I think of how this all started. Two kids who were so afraid of dying, they let the nation spiral into chaos. What will happen now that we're ready?

He finds my hand in the darkness and holds onto it firmly. "I know you don't want to hear it, and it's probably fairly obvious, but I just... I just need to get it out. Katniss, I love you," he says.

I don't even hesitate. "I love you too," I reply.

And the words aren't to appease a dying man, because while I've never understood love, and still have my doubts about it, I know that my feelings for Peeta go beyond friendship and camaraderie. That they go beyond basic want. I need him. As much as water and air. As much as life itself.

I kiss him before we can dwell on the declaration any longer. And that's how we fall asleep. Kissing and holding one another, as if it were our last day on earth.

* * *

The interview that Antonius promised is held early the next day. Peeta and I are to deliver a speech about the state of the nation, and to call for a ceasefire. Then, President Snow is scheduled for closing remarks.

After my prep team is finished with me, I expect to be escorted to the main stage to run lines, but instead I'm brought to a second room, identical to the one before.

"The President wanted you to be briefed," the guard explains, leading me to a sofa where Peeta is already waiting. "And he has a message for you: Don't worry; it'll all be over soon."

Before I can understand what he means, an image is projected onto the wall from an unknown source. A wide shot of the Capitol skyline, and its elaborate architecture glistening beneath a setting sun.

I look to Peeta, who's watching the scene euphorically. His eyes glistening in pure captivation. It's not until I feel the pinch of a needle jam into my neck that I know why. Morphling.

I melt into the sofa and get let lost in the images. Children laughing. Sprawling meadows. Crisp blue skies. The Capitol.

"Peace. Prosperity. Panem today. Panem tomorrow. Panem forever." The video chants.

And for a second, I find myself repeating it.

When I finally come back to myself, I'm still beside Peeta, but we're no longer in the room. We're standing before a large audience, our images projected by giant screens on both sides of the stage. The people cheer fanatically, joining in with our chant. "Panem today. Panem tomorrow. Panem forever."

"Now is the time to lay down your weapons and join hands with your brothers," I find myself saying from a memory I can't recall. I'm a prisoner in my own body; none of the words that come out are my own. "Do not be oppressed by the radicals. We will overcome their terror."

The screens go dark, and the audience gasps audibly, anticipating some big finale for our rally. But Peeta and my image never return. Instead, the emblem of the mockingjay fills the screen. It cuts to footage of the districts. Buildings on fire, half of them collapsed into rubble. Finnick appears, dressed as a soldier as he leads a troop into battle. Next it's Johanna, boarding a fighter jet before footage plays of a squadron in pursuit of a Capitol hovercraft. Then it's Prim in medical scrubs as she treats the sick. "Remember the Mockingjay," she says to the camera. When she stands, she's dressed as a soldier with a bow in her hand. "Remember the fight!"

"Prim! No!" I shout to her image, though it's impossible for her to reply. 

Before I can say anything more, Peeta pushes me aside to step up to the microphone. "They're coming for you," he says sternly. "You in Thirteen! You'll be dead by morning!"

Chaos breaks out as peacekeepers and audience members rush the stage. The microphone goes dead. The stage lights go out. Too many hands to count grab me and pull me backstage to where President Snow is waiting.

"I'm afraid you've lost your bargaining power," he says in a surprisingly calm tone. "Looks like they've found a new Mockingjay." He turns to one of the guards. "Kill them. The boy first. I want her to see what she's done."

We move briskly down several flights of steps, back underground to where my prison cell awaits. I notice now that the guard, the one who was kind to me, is the one with a hold on my arm, and I laugh bitterly, wondering if he'll be the one to pull the trigger at my execution.

"Get the closed chambers ready, he doesn't want this to be public," he barks out an order.

His partner goes to engage his communicuff, but is met with only static. "Comms are down," he says. 

"Then go yourself!" he says. "Move!"

Up the hall, Peeta is being escorted towards me. He must have gotten caught in the riot because his face looks battered by a few fresh bruises.

"I want to say good bye," I say to my guard.

"It's a little late to be making requests," he says. Then he turns over his wrist to activate his communicuff. "I've got both targets in sight."

A lot seems to happen at once. My guard opens the door to my cell and shoves me inside before drawing his weapon; firing two quick shots in the direction I'd last seen Peeta. I sit motionless in horror at the thud of a body hitting the floor, then a second.

I claw my way across the cool tile, the life quickly draining from my body. "Peeta," I whisper.

"Lock down AA-23," my guard is still rattling off orders.

When I finally make it to the door, a pair of arms helps me to my feet, then wrap around me tightly. "Katniss," I hear Peeta whisper in my ear and I melt against him completely in relief.

"We have to get out of here," my guard says impatiently.

"Why would we follow you?" I spat back, which is harsh, since as far as I can tell, he just saved our lives.

"I'm Colonel Boggs with the Thirteenth Army," he says. "And I'm here to rescue you."


End file.
